


Moods

by thatwritertype



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective John, Sherlock is sad, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwritertype/pseuds/thatwritertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But sadness—the overwhelming sense of a heavy, swaying moroseness in his chest—was a mood that Sherlock had never been able to describe.  There was never a cause or a reason, just a weight that sometimes clung to him for days at a time.  It wasn’t even true sadness; that was just the only word in Sherlock’s extensive vocabulary that came close to pinning down the essence of what he felt during those times.  It would probably be more accurate to say that he felt nothing, that he was blank, and that it wasn’t an emotion, but an absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moods

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of it.

At the tender age of nineteen, Sherlock Holmes had identified the six major categories of his bad moods: bored and frustrated, which could result in him using an illegal firearm on an innocent wall; manic but bored; lonely; frustrated and sad; and simply sad. Of all the half-dozen, this last was the most difficult for him to pinpoint.

When Sherlock was simply sad, he walked through the world feeling that he or it or both were dissolving into thin air. There was too much and not enough of everything—his senses were dulled, his desire to do anything other than lie in bed even more so. He existed in stasis, within a ghostly, foggy world in which there was nothing, really.

Even if he had no constructive way to handle his other moods, he could at least describe them all. When he was sad and frustrated, he was angry and enjoyed lashing out, especially by kicking over the trash bins in the alley only to clean up the mess by throwing the refuse back in with even more malice than he’d used in the first place.

When he was bored and frustrated, Sherlock liked to provoke others into arguments to relieve the pressure in his mind—knowing, of course, that with his faultless logic and ability to be both stubborn and annoying, he would win in the end (even if his victory was only the result of the other party’s forfeit).

If he was upset—bored and manic—he preferred to self-medicate. His drugs of choice had chiefly been cocaine and heroin before the realization that he wasn’t doing his brain any favors by injecting chemicals into it on the regular. Now he used adrenaline, caffeine, and nicotine patches to calm his racing mind.

Sherlock only became lonely nowadays when John was at his silly, pointless job. Honestly, the man didn’t need to spend his days removing splinters and prescribing antibiotics when he could easily find a more exciting position as an A&E doctor (John should have known he couldn’t fool his flatmate—Sherlock was well aware that the man was doubly specialized as both a GP and a trauma physician). The lonely moods now only overshadowed him when John left London for work, like his trip to Dublin the day before the boomerang and Irene Adler. He hated feeling unheard and ignored.

But sadness—the overwhelming sense of a heavy, swaying moroseness in his chest—was a mood that Sherlock had never been able to describe. There was never a cause or a reason, just a weight that sometimes clung to him for days at a time. It wasn’t even true sadness; that was just the only word in Sherlock’s extensive vocabulary that came close to pinning down the essence of what he felt during those times. It would probably be more accurate to say that he felt nothing, that he was blank, and that it wasn’t an emotion, but an absence.

This was the mood Sherlock found himself in as he lay in bed one night, limbs immovable and mind stifled. He had solved two cases already that week, and though they had been stimulating, he had been unable to muster up any real enthusiasm for the work. The mask of his typical self—the acerbic individual who usually showed up at crime scenes—that he had donned before leaving the flat prevented Lestrade and his team from detecting his mood, but John had certainly noticed. At least, the sympathetic ruffle of Sherlock’s hair as John disappeared to bed earlier suggested that he wasn’t ignorant to his friend’s state of mind. Sherlock could tell that this was an invitation: if he needed help later, John would be happy to provide it. If not, that was all right, too. John merely wanted his friend to know that he was there and that he understood. 

Sherlock somehow mustered up the will to crawl out of bed and make his way up the stairs to push lightly at John’s door. Good. The other man was peaceful and nightmare-free tonight. “John,” Sherlock whispered. “John.”

His flatmate sat up, hair sticking up on one side of his head. The sight of him made Sherlock’s chest ache. “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John mumbled, clearly still somewhat asleep.

Sherlock felt his eyes fill with tears because, honestly, what was wrong? But at the same time, what wasn’t? He, Sherlock Holmes, always had the answers except when it came to his own irrational psyche.

John must have sensed Sherlock’s uncertainty and recalled the other man’s recent behavior because the next moment he was in front of his friend. He took Sherlock’s hands and led him back to the bed, where he pulled Sherlock on top of him so his forehead was pressed along John’s jawline. John pulled the covers up high enough that they nearly covered the two of them and then wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock’s back, rubbing his hands in small circles.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” he murmured a few minutes later, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock had not yet fallen asleep.

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder and pressed himself even tighter into John’s side. “There’s nothing to talk about, John. There’s no reason for me to feel this way; it’s not logical. There isn’t a mystery for me to unravel here…I just want it to—to—”

Here he stopped and buried his face in John’s neck, mortified as the hot tears he’d been suppressing began to course down his face. He clung to John, ashamed yet too desperate for comfort to let go. John merely held him more fiercely than ever and stroked sympathetic fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“You just want it to stop,” John finished in a soft voice when Sherlock had gained control of his tears. Sherlock gulped and wiped his face on John’s already-damp t-shirt. “John—make—it stop,” he whispered, finding himself wishing that he could be a child right now so that he could wail and sob with no inhibitions. He wanted to be small enough that John could scoop him up in strong arms and hold him even tighter.

“I know, Sherlock, I know. Shhhhh. I’m here and it’s okay. Cry all you want, that’s it. Just let it out. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Shhh, hey, you’re brilliant and lovely and it’s all right to cry. I’m right here,” John murmured, threading his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and wrapping his body around Sherlock’s, cocooning him tightly. Slowly Sherlock’s sobs began to subside, leaving him drained. John rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s spine, giving him something to focus on besides the sadness. Eventually, Sherlock let out one final breath and settled against John.  
“You all right for now?” John whispered against Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock nodded against his friend’s neck. “Yes. Thank you, John…I’m sorry.”

John flipped onto his side and squirmed down so he could look Sherlock in the eye. He cupped his friend’s face in steady palms and said, “Sherlock, you don’t need to apologize. You have nothing to apologize for, I promise. I’m glad you came up here to me tonight…I just want to help you. You know I’m here for whatever you need,” here he paused to tilt Sherlock’s chin up so they were eye-to-eye, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded. He could almost feel his true self beginning to bubble up from the murky waters of his sadness and he knew that his breakdown, however painful, had helped. He wouldn’t be back to normal for a few days yet, and the specter would almost certainly return sometime in the future, but he was finally regaining solid ground.

He could also feel his limbs growing steadily heavier, not with lassitude like before, but with sleepiness. John folded his arms around Sherlock’s back and nuzzled at Sherlock’s mop of curls. Sherlock ran his fingertips up and down his friend’s arm, reveling in the goosebumps that followed in their wake. John smiled against Sherlock’s head and a rush of tenderness filled the detective so quickly that he felt almost lightheaded. He tried to open his mouth to express it but instead found himself falling down, down, down… 

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, John still in his arms, he had forgotten the precise words that he had needed to say the night before. There was no rush, though, Sherlock thought as he pressed himself closer to his doctor’s warmth. This calm, contented mood that simply meant John—John and his warm breath and his illegal firearm and his protective yet gentle nature—was more than enough for now.


End file.
